


Making their peace

by Astray



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Feels crushing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Takes place right before/during/after the deposition scene, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry seeks Richard out as the deposition takes place. He certainly did not expected the once-king of England to ask him questions he should not be able to answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making their peace

**Author's Note:**

> This is an opportunity I had to merge Shakespeare's play with bits and pieces of History. The interaction between Richard and Bolingbroke often gives me pause, after all. Of course, it is still fictional, and I am pretty certain nothing of the sort could have happened. 
> 
> As for the references to Edward II, they are historically accurate - Gloucester had threatened Richard with it, and generally, they were often considered to be similar. Though honestly, I don't see how.

To return, after so many months, and yet, so short a time in face of his pronounced exile. To return to this good England, nurturing mother, and yet find but ruined castles, soiled inheritance, enslaved titles. His right demanded his anger, so raged Lancaster beneath Bolingbroke's courtesy. Not even Northumberland could fan his anger into more than glowing embers. He would not be baited. However, things changed when he caught Bushy and Green. The rancour he felt was not entirely his. They, after all, have betrayed Richard proof that their friendship - their sycophantic fawning - only measured as far as the royal coffers could credit. Even as he invoked their part in destroying the bond between Richard and his queen, he felt a stab in remembering how they have strived for Richard to scorn him - and his father. The one thing he resented Richard for, beyond his exile and the robbing of his inheritance, was his callous treatment of their uncle's death. Because it had marked him as a king capable of killing his own kinsman instead of having him tried. Because it instigated such a fear in the magnates. Himself well remembered the worry that pervaded their lives after the death of Gloucester has been unveiled. Who would be next? If Henry were entirely honest about it, he would admit that Lancaster would have made a better target, albeit a more dangerous one, for Richard to assert his authority. Lancaster, the most powerful man in the realm, whose affinity matched that of the king. Lancaster, the dreaded Duke, slandered by his peers and lesser men. But, where Gloucester had been a troublemaker, antagonizing Richard since he ascended the throne, threatening him, Gaunt had stood by the king. Gloucester's sons were dead, when Lancaster had several living sons, all could have taken arms against the murderer of their blood. Richard had not, and so, perhaps loyalty was still sterling in England. In spite of all that happened, Henry could not bring himself to hate Richard as much as he despised his advisers. However, even though he resented the king, he could not bring himself to think about harming his cousin. Even as he saw Lancaster doomed, the king alone, not the man, aroused his wrath. The self-serving excuses of men, who turned his liege, and kinsman, against him will bear the brunt of it. 

He wished Richard well. There was no rivalry between them as children. Their fathers were close, Richard and he were the same age. They were too different for any rivalry to exist. One born not to rule, but fated king to be; the other born future Lancaster, to serve and aid the future king. When their grandfather made them promise, on his deathbed, that they help each other, it had seemed easy. Their promise held until those sycophants came in. Henry could not help but recall the doom of Thomas Lancaster, who had supported his king Edward II, until Gaveston and the Despensers took turn in depriving the king of his wits and lawful rule. The whistle of the axe brought him back from his mind palace. It was too late now for remembrance, now that the caterpillars were squashed. At long last, he would see his cousin face to face.

His first meeting with Richard had not swayed him, on the contrary. However, now he saw him without the pomp and regalia. The king was only a man. Henry found it hard to reconcile the Richard he was seeing and the one he saw moments ago, a young, commanding Jove on his throne. He was taken aback by Richard's defensive stance, the insecurity that seemed to seep through the cracks of his worn mask. 

"Why had you come, fair cousin?"

"To seek my inheritance. Nothing less, and nothing more than that." All that you took as your own for your foolish campaigns. 

"Your own is yours... And thus I am yours and all."

Surely he meant the crown and sceptre, but Henry could not be certain of it. Richard placed a greater value on words than most, Yet, he could not prevent those words from stirring something in the dark recesses of his soul. That someone as proud as Richard would give himself so entirely... Even if his meaning could be only figurative, Richard's were too carefully chosen for the double entendre to be wholly incidental. 

"So far be mine, my most redoubted liege." The words, the title, fell from his mouth out of habit. He was unsure whether or not Richard would toy with his words, as he usually was wont to do. Caught in his thoughts, he did not notice that Richard had moved until he was standing right in front of him. Such closeness was unnerving. Richard was terrifying up close. A king too handsome, beautiful even, a king who knew to use his looks as a weapon. A weapon too many tended to disregard. There was something bright in him, an innocence, or a perfect mimicry of it. After all, the king was a proficient actor, skilled in good-natured promises forgotten when need arose - turning soothing words into bitter deceit. But all acting demanded a hint of truth. As they stood mere inches from each other, and even though he was slightly taller than Richard, Henry felt cornered.

"Won't you have it, cousin." Oh, how sharp those words, biting through his defences and bringing walls down. "Have you suddenly grown out of your conquest? Does treason suffice itself, to satisfy your glut?" 

"You know about betrayal." He could not hide the bitterness of his tone. He would have born the burden of his exile in silence, but the seizure of his inheritance had been a treason. A treason to the Great Charter. A treason from king to baron. The betrayal of a kinsman he loved. His outburst seemed to surprise Richard, his eyes widening for an instant before his expression turned grim:

"You had to say it. I am the king, your king and-"

"And with all due respect, you forewent an oath of fealty, stained the Charter, and all for the sake of vanity." He had gone too far. Richard's face has turned ashen from the strain - he had never taken well to criticism. "Had my rights not been scorned, I would have supported you as much as I could, after serving my time on foreign shores."

"What tells me you are not lying through your teeth?"

"If you believe me not, at least believe this: I have no wish for any of this. No wish to take your crown from you." We know what befalls crownless kings.

When Richard touched his face, the coldness of his hand startled Henry. Without the warm gold of his regalia, it was as though Richard himself was bereft of life. In this moment, he was Richard the Second of that name no longer. He was Richard of Bordeaux, the second son of Edward of Wales. On impulse, Henry reached for him, embracing him. Just as he would embrace his siblings. Yet, he felt Richard stiffen, ready to bolt, as though he expected a blow - a Judas's kiss in the form of a dagger. 

"I will not hurt you, Richard." Saying his name felt so odd. He had not called him so since Richard's coronation, when they were ten. His own father had wished him to learn proper decorum. 'While your cousin in blood, he is now king.' Inaccessible. 

"Won't you." 

It was not a question - it was not meant to be one. Both were not acutely aware that one could not live while the other breathed. Henry tightened his grip on Richard, so that he felt the angles of his frame, the strength hidden under the king's mantle. In spite of what people thought, Richard was not weak nor sickly. He had learned all that was required of a young nobleman. It was this strength that let him face the revolt. A king of fourteen facing his people at Mile End. He could have won the people then, but failed instead. No, his cousin was strong, but this strength was misdirected. Henry shared the magnates concerns about a king so easily lured by his favourites. His straying thoughts were caught when he felt Richard tentatively wrap his arms around him, returning the embrace. He was still so cold that Henry did as he usually did with his son: he slowly rubbed along his cousin's spine, trying to bring some warmth back in him. 

"What are you doing?" 

Henry could feel his breath against his ear - warm. So Richard was not already dead. 

"Warming you up. You are so cold it's a wonder Death has not claimed you yet."

"It has. You, fair cousin, tore the king from the man. The mantle from the body. Now the body of man is left bare for ice and bodkin both. Of Richard, you only hold half."

Even though the last sentence was but a breathless whisper, it clawed at Henry. He could not scorn the man for the king's action, and yet, while the king lived through crown alone, it was the man who was suffering at his hands. Were he able to hate the man now standing before him, things would certainly be easier. Tomorrow, King Richard will be no more. Tomorrow, Richard of Bordeaux alone will remain. And yet, came the treacherous words, offering no comfort but deeper anguish:

"'Tis not true." It could not be true. 

"Yet you know this is, Henry. Even actors do not stand above truth at times."

The calm tone used by Richard, more than his words, undid Henry. Richard was the one held against his will. Richard was the one whose life was at stake, and yet it was him, Lancaster, who was left floundering. How could Richard be so resigned? He had to do something, anything. Richard's passiveness was gnawing at him. 

"Ask me then, what do you want?" The words tumbled from his mouth in a graceless heap.

"A dead man's wish it is, cousin?"

"You are not dead." Not entirely. He could not let go. Not yet. He feared that if he did, Richard would fall dead on the stone floor. "I beg you, to ask." 

"Am I so great that even king begs for me to command them?" 

It stung, but at least, it reassured Henry: Richard was not entirely gone if he still turned his own words against him. He did not reply - a reply was not needed. 

"If you are so adamant that I ask you, then answer this, cousin. Think not of the consequences of your answer. As I am bound to you, not you to me."

Henry could not help feeling slightly exasperated. There was a very thin line between reassurance of Richard's sanity, and annoyance at being at the receiving end of these continued jabs. Not that he did not have a lifetime to get used to it. 

"Richard..." He hoped this would be enough to put him back on track, and it apparently was, as he could see his cousin suddenly sober up.

"Do you love me?" 

While part of him effectively wanted to flail, asking what kind of question that was, another part of his mind did not so much as flinch. As though it had been expected all the while. In a way, it was. And how easily the answer appeared. Because he dearly loved Richard. No matter how aggravating he could be. Though hating the king, loving the man more. As though he could not be sure who Richard was to him. Cousin, sibling, liege - friend? If he were more honest, he would freely admit that weren't they so stubborn, the promise made to their grandfather would have been heartily kept. Still, such a realization came too late. Love, though still alive, was blotted by Richard's misrule. And how it hurt him to think about it. Truth was bitter indeed, the remedy worse than the poison. Still he held Richard as a drowning man. Richard was the one caught in the ocean's merciless grip, yet Henry felt like drowning. Doomed Richard - and Henry had known all along. His father made it clear. 'See how doted upon he is. He was not meant to rule anymore than you are. Yet, fate and disease made it so. The last vial of my brother's blood. Do not be fooled, Henry: he knows. Should he wish to forget, or were he unlucky enough to forget, neither the Commons, nor the peers of the realm, not even my brother Gloucester, would let him.' This knowledge of not being the original heir, the one meant to ascend the throne, was obvious in Richard's constant strife to quell any challenge, real or imagined, to his authority. In his need to be praised, for his decisions to be approved of. The second son, the second Richard. He had to live up to his name - kingship does not tolerate failure. Any blemish on its spotless velum was an affront, called for retribution. Being Henry Bolingbroke had been easier. Derby, Hereford, even Lancaster, all was easier than bearing that restless crown.   
Richard had asked him a question. A question to which Henry knew he deserved an answer. A dying man's wish indeed. 

"Of course... I do love you, Richard. Though there is no salvation to be had."

There was no imagining the sudden smile, the gratitude in Richard's stance. Henry felt his insides twist - this, more than the rebellion, the shortened exile, made him feel a traitor. 

"Aye, I know." Henry loosened his grip, staring at Richard. How could he smile as he said this? And what did he know? Did he know that Henry loved him, or that salvation was lost? Henry's questions were answered as Richard went on: "Salvation is for saints alone, cousin. But if there is comfort to be had, and if you agree, I would welcome it. In truth, sleep has deserted me."

Henry agreed. For the first time in their adult lives, the threat of deposition, the dread of coronation, made them bedfellows. In turn, standing guard for the other, wondering what could have been. 

They did not meet again - until the queen has fled back to France, until Richard surrendered crown and sovereignty to Lancaster. Too old to be his son, young enough to be his heir. Henry knew - he was cruel to Richard. He was no stranger to the uncomprehending pain that distorted his cousin's features. No matter how prepared he thought he would be - no amount of preparation was enough. Henry had underestimated the anger of the lords. With what strength old Northumberland gnawed at the fallen king's bones. The silent unease of aged York, last of King Edward's sons and yet powerless in preventing royal blood to be spilled. If only the son of Clarence had been of age. Henry did not want the crown for himself, but he was bound. Bound by the expectations the lords had of him. How could he bring calm to the country, the stability it needed when he was caught in such a turmoil? The anguish he had seen in Richard drove sleep away from him, and he remained until the cock's crow. 

He went to Pontrefact to meet Richard, He did so against Northumberland's will. He had no choice: it was too late. He could never be safe as long as Richard lived. Yet, he had to wait until he was brought to Richard's cell. How low had the king fallen - from Westminster to a cold, rank-smelling cell. As angry as he was at Richard for all his faults, he was even angrier at his gaolers. He did not lose to time in rounding up on the culprits. 

"My liege, he is no king to deserve any other treatment."

"And yet, the same blood enlivens us both. He is a prince of royal descent, and shall be treated as such. Even if I have to order you to the gallows."

Arrangements were made so that Richard was held in a better furnished room. Henry was aware that it was temporary - the Northumberland only humoured him. When he entered the room, he sent the guards away and waited for Richard to acknowledge him. It was no different from when Richard was king. Richard did not turn around as he spoke:

"Have you come so far to mock me, fair cousin?"

Back to the 'fair cousin'. One would think Richard was doing it on purpose, something that Henry would not put past him. "No." A single word - no, I don't want to mock you - no, I cannot save you - no, you do not deserve this. Henry waited by the door, as when he was still Derby and Richard was still England. It was only when Richard turned around that the illusion was broken. Richard had lost weight. His hair was tangled, falling just above his shoulders. The plainness of his attire made Henry all the more conscious of the fact that it was a man who stood in front of him. It also made his suddenly aware of his own warlike array, in a rather stifling way. His gorget felt like a rope tightening around his neck, his sword weighing him down like an anchor. A drifting ship without oars in a storm. he did not need any of these and thus, he let go of them, laying his gorget and gloves on the side. Without his weapon, he felt oddly naked, vulnerable to attacks. From the corner of his eye, he noticed how Richard had tensed. What was he thinking again? 

"What now, cousin? I would not hurt you."

"You already said so. Was it before or after you sent your men to taunt me with King Edward's fate?" 

There was no question as to which King Edward Richard was referring to. This had also been a constant during his reign. And yet... "I gave no such order." Whoever would be cruel enough to bait Richard with such fate. 

"And yet, politics demand my head to crown yours." 

He spoke the truth, and Henry had been foolish to think that Richard, of all people, would not notice. He had a sudden urge to shorten the idiots responsible. Instead, he merely walked up to Richard, gauging his reaction for any sign of discomfort. Odd how Richard seemed to shy from him, when he clearly recalled him as more prone to seek contact rather than avoid it. 

"I..." Damned be eloquence! "I already told you. I have no wish to take away what is yours by right." It was no lie, to seize the crown - it would be doing unto Richard what has be done unto him. This, he refused to accept. Denial, however, never righted past wrongs. 

"Unkinged I am to crown you king, though unwilling as a crownless king's life is shortened to fleeting days. Yet, king you are now to feel the weight of this usurped sovereignty soon to stain your hands by sitting on your brow."

"Cousin, I was not born for it."

At this, Richard stuck him. The vicious strength of the blow was such that Henry failed to react, dumbfounded as he was. In this moment, he remembered the Richard who had leaped to Arundel, striking him in Parliament. The Richard who had once unsheathed his sword in Parliament to defy his wayward magnates. More than the blow, the words he then spoke with such venom that it froze Henry. 

"Dare you expect me to feel sorry for your lot? Constantly, I was reminded how things could have been, had my father lived. Again and again, I was reminded of our great-grandfather's fate. That I was not-" As Richard faltered, all Henry could do was watch. A distant observer to a tragedy. "That I was not fit to rule. They wanted a new Edward the Third. They wanted another Edward of Woodstock. What disappointment I must have been to them, I who am neither."

"I never-" Richard's dismissive hand gesture cut him short. 

"Isn't it ironical then, that they all thought me to be another Edward the Second? That they thought Lancaster to be my doom. Though it had been believed that your father Lancaster would try to usurp, he remained true to his oath. Of this, few men could boast. Now, even fewer." 

What was that now? "Stop talking nonsense, Richard! Of course he was loyal. He loved your father dearly." Just as Richard was opening his mouth to protest, he added: "Loyalty is given to state and to blood. If opposition arose, it was not to destroy but to save. It does not matter any longer."

"Indeed, it matters not." But Henry knew that Richard had listened to him. "Pray, tell me of my appointment to the hangman?"

"The hangman?!" To say Henry recoiled at the thought was putting it mildly. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

The look on Richard's face was enough to make him take a step back. It was the same withering stare that accompanied the sentence against Arundel, Warwick and Gloucester. A sentence Henry had barely evaded. The sentence that beheaded an earl, exiled another and sent, most likely in the same way, a duke to his early grave. Henry recalled then that Richard never forgot anything. Richard had been king for over twenty years. To survive so long, in spite of the numerous conflicts with his magnates, the people's growing discontentment, empty coffers that never seemed to be refilled, to survive so long certainly required a certain backbone. Even though Richard's pride sometimes bordered on hubris, and his extravagant ways were enough to have his roll his eyes, Henry had to acknowledge his longevity on the throne. 

"I would rather not have you lying to me, cousin. Nor to yourself. They know. All the country, my kingdom, must know as well. As our uncle Gloucester once said, known is the lot that falls to kings who fail." The pause in Richard's speech would make all the followed more dramatic. Henry was used to these theatrics. Yet, when Richard went on, he was rooted to the spot. "You know that I failed."

"Not in everything." And he could not have said if he was trying to reassure Richard, or himself. Truth be told, he was weary, He felt older now, as though he has finally stepped in Richard's shoes, those ageless shoes of kings. Without think about his actions, and disregarding Richard's earlier wariness, Henry walked towards him, forcing Richard to retreat until he had to sit on the bed. The only piece of furniture this side of the room. As he sat, Richard looked at him with the same apprehension he had displayed before. And yet, his entire body language bespoke of his well-known stubborn defiance. 

"What would have me do, cousin? Now that I am jailed and friendless, I am afraid I have very little to offer."

Henry would not have been able to place it precisely but something in Richard's words and tone made him colder. Part of him dreaded what he was implying. Surely, Richard would not think about something so vile... Oh, but he would. Of course he would. He has been compared to their forefather so often that part of it probably has stuck. And there were the rumours about him and his trio of sycophants, not to mention De Vere, rumours that have been running throughout the realm like a pack of rabid dogs. Henry himself had harboured doubts, but that Richard so obviously expected the same retribution as that allegedly wrought on Edward II made him sick in his stomach. Not sickened by Richard, but sickened that Richard would think so little of him. It was not the kind of punishment he would ever deal, and certainly not to his own cousin. In a sense, he could not help but pity him. It passed. After all, Richard was still a proud Plantagenet, and he would brook no pity. In an attempt to placate his cousin, he reversed the question. 

"What would you have me do? What can I ever do to amend what my former, and lawful, demands brought to your head?"

"Took from my head. And nothing, but a grave when my life is spent. For now, I live. This is enough."

"Richard, don't." Don't tell me this, don't remind me of all this. 

"Don't what, Henry? I am king no more, and so, hail to you, king. But my demands are sealed. A subject I am, to be subjected and naught else."

Richard usually did not use his name. Not since decades past. Time was running out. That Richard's words upset him did not help matters. Unfortunately, these words sparked cruelty in his mind. 

"I care not about titles. As you seem so keen on saying, death will soon claim you. This is not what I ever wanted. We are of the same blood, and yet like sand it runs from us, leaving no trace but dust. Richard, as your kinsman, I wish you would tell me what you wish for."

"Life and limbs are no longer mine. My sovereignty melted in your crown. What is dead and lost cannot be reclaimed." Richard rose, close enough to touch, this time he did not recoil. "I did you wrong, Henry. I know. And now wronged I am. Tell me, would you forgive me, in death if forgiveness be not given in life?"

In spite of his convoluted speech, Henry would not deny Richard. Past offences are now past redress. 

"Cousin, forgiveness I freely give you. So long you would forgive me, a traitor to you though I appear to be." 

"Treason against the king, only king can forgive. You are now king, and thus, forgive yourself if you can. As a man, and your cousin, I do forgive you, and make with you my peace, thus it be sealed."

A kiss of peace, so benign an act, though of great significance. Barely a touch, yet so telling. The coldness of Richard's lips against his scared Henry. As though he was already in the grave. That Richard initiated it spoke volumes - he who had been wary of getting too close to Henry until then. On a whim, Henry enfolded him in his arms again, Richard reciprocating the gesture. The closeness got to his head, and he knew not how to react. A kiss of peace is a common gesture, a formal one. This... This was too intimate. And still, he lingered, unwilling to let go. Thoughts that should not have entered his mind at all nearly collapsed his composure. In an instant, everything vanished. A frozen moment in time, seconds that felt as minutes. 

"You should go now, Henry. The king must never give his subjects the occasion to ask questions they would ask sooner or later. By questions, I mean those they would use against you. Now, I know this." He must have looked utterly forlorn, as Richard continued: "It boots not to be sorry. Soon, I will be but a memory - and you will then follow me to this dark place men call 'grave'. Grave now be your countenance, and so, go." Even though Richard now sounded, and even looked, as regal as he ever did, there was no mistaking the untold grief weaved through his words.

"I will then, my beloved cousin." He meant it. The love that had endured exile and deposition would endure final separation. Richard was his - he suspected Richard knew this too. Once more, he kissed his once-king, his kinsman, as one would in blessing. "Farewell, I fear this is our last meeting."

"Aye, for otherwise men would depose the one they strove to crown." A small, tired, mirthless smile appeared on Richard's face, making Henry ache for his laughter. "Remember, reign is never kind for those who take. But your son will be the heir I never had." 

Upon those words, Henry departed, leaving Richard of Bordeaux to his fate, until he marched to his, years later. Meeting again in tombs carved from the same stone. Throughout his reign, sleep had deserted Henry the Fourth of that name. Always would linger Richard's words. Sleep brought Richard's face, and the fleeting warmth of their last embrace. Through the sleepless nights, he would pray that things had been different. King Richard and Henry Lancaster. When death rose to claim him, his last though was not for his state, for his son, but for the man he had kept in his heart and soul through sorrow from accursed deeds. "Now, I am but Lancaster. This weary head has lost the hollow crown of kings to wear but bones. Only the king can forgive harm done unto a king. Even as a king, I never forgave myself." 

As he had Richard brought from Langley to Westminster, Henry the Fifth not only thought about the uncle who had cared for him, a hostage though he had been. He also thought of his father, whose pain and grief never washed the guilt. Now he did as his father never dared do in life, In this moment, in the breast of a young king, did England and Lancaster make their peace.


End file.
